


Ten

by ThirthFloor



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Artist Steve Rogers, Basically Bucky has flashbacks with every trigger word before he goes blank brain, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dancing Lessons, Flashbacks, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Bucky Barnes, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovered Memories, Repressed Memories, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Unrequited Love, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirthFloor/pseuds/ThirthFloor
Summary: HYDRA has its reasoning, its meaning behind each of the Winter Soldier's ten trigger words.But to work so effectively so often, they must have more meaning than basic conditioning. Tapped into through rigorous, relentless study, some memories resurface at the mention of the words that make Bucky tick, right before everything goes away again.Many of them are about Steve, whose name he hardly remembers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Ten

**Author's Note:**

> These chapters will cover each of the ten words, but they are not written in order! I got the idea for this chapter first, so it will be the first word I cover, even though it is not the first in the sequence!

“ _Семнадцать_ ,” the man with the book spoke. _Seventeen_.

Bucky flinched, clenching his fists. One of the men let out a soft noise, a snicker to match the upwards pull of his mouth, just a corner. They watched with such interest, horrifically still in comparison to the war writhing within him, strapped down in an embrace that was as familiar as it was cruel.

They didn’t know why Bucky recoiled at the word, why out of so many, _that_ was able to chip away, worming itself into his conditioning. They thought they knew, and they very well might be right. Bucky knew they were, too, at least a semblance of it - because regardless of why it began in the first place, he couldn’t even remember _when_ they started. 

_Why_ was a lost cause… Whether Bucky had learnt it at all, rather.

They assumed the reference of the year was enough, but when every thought was shattered like glass, there was a brief moment that the two reminders reflected each other. A broken mirror, bad luck, slicing him apart inside. He was helpless. It was cutting.

Bucky saw _his_ face. 

Twice. 

Once in the close present, a flash of some time not long ago, but all the same he had long since forgotten. And once as a haze, coming unclearly, fogged through that frosted frame, something that didn’t belong on a picture even if it were shattered. 

Seventeen. Why? 

Seventeen. 

_Seventeen_.

He was seventeen. 

_He_ wasn’t.

What was his name? The boy, the man. What was it? 

What was his own?

Seventeen. He was _seventeen_.

He clenched his fists.

Why did that word hurt?

What’s to a number?

What had that man, small but bright and full of something his own crushed hands couldn’t reach, what had he said? What had they done? 

What could he have done to starlight like that to burn himself, if not snatched and caressed it with his own fingers? He must have held it to be marred, wounded. So _why_ did it feel like something lost, something _always_ so far away? Twinkling but never fading, just waning in a reminder that he could never obtain it; whatever it was, he was not deserving.

Seventeen.

That number stuck, that age stuck. Something hurt, something deep in his gut. It spread like poison, all over and it _burned_. He trembled. He clenched his jaw as bile rose in his stomach, in his throat, and his skin flared from something more. 

Shame.

He was ashamed.

Seventeen was _shame_.

He was undeserving.

To keep from gagging on his own breaths, he smacked his head back against the chair. Fell. Fell backwards. Fell away from all he was undeserving of.

He tumbled head over heels into shame, back into a memory that collided and crashed against his body like an unforgiving concrete floor.

~

**1934**

~

Bucky flicked the stub of a cigarette from his hand before he reached Steve - a habit he’d been encouraged to shake but not outright chastised for.

The road behind the apartment buildings was always quiet this time of evening, except for on weekends. Cars would go by skirting the narrow strip by the river below and kicking up dust as men and their dates headed to town for any sort of weekend revelry. But now, a quiet week night, it was Steve’s own size six Oxford that chipped at the dirt in reach from where he leaned against the brick of the building behind him. Bucky saw the puffs of dust through the lingering waft of cigarette smoke that drifted in front of his own face.

In all his form and fit, Bucky didn’t need to worry on the short term what those Marlboros would do to him, also on the chance that he’d get to live a long and healthy life until the effects came. But for Steve, one knock would likely send him into a fit that would shave a spring off his life on the spot. He was wary of such things.

And Bucky was too, always tossing his butts before he got too close, making sure that not even secondhand smoke got near his friend. Bucky always looked out for him, even when Steve wished he wouldn’t.

“I gotta say, you picked quite the place, Stevie.” A chuckle ready on his lips, he smiled easily. He crossed the still street, leaning on the railing on this side of the East River. He didn’t need to see the way Steve’s eyes lit up as he pushed himself off the wall. “Water’s nice, but there’s a chill here, don’t want you catchin’ cold.”

His voice was knitted with concern, much like one of the warm, wooly scarves Bucky would ordinarily offer Steve on cold nights like this. But there hadn’t been much time to prepare to come here, not when Steve had left a note asking to meet on this bum little street, their meeting spot under the lamppost and the fire escape, just in earshot of the humble gurgling of the busy East.

“This won’t take long, Buck, keep your socks on.” Steve dragged his palms down his slacks before joining his friend across the street, leaning on the cold metal railing too as shivers wracked his body. Even beneath the large coat that shrouded his narrow shoulders, Steve shook. “I actually wanted to… to talk about something. Not much, just somethin’ that’s been on my mind, though.” The words barely escape being pinched.

He shifted, but Steve didn’t look down. He never did, lovely eyes as icy blue as the sky during the day and the coming frosts that would slick the streets in a few short weeks. But they weren’t cold tonight, they were watery. Murky in a closed sense that Bucky didn’t quite understand, but in the past decade of their friendship had quickly grown to recognize. His heart clenched, that same concern from earlier spreading across his skin like a blush.

First things, first. Bucky _tsked_ , wrapping a strong hand around Steve’s little arm and dragging him back from the edge of the river. “At least step back from it, I’m tellin’ ya, you’re lucky I don’t know how long you’ve been out here waiting for me.” He frowned when they reached the halo of golden light beneath the street lamp, where the brick wall offered some shelter from the carrying breeze and warmed them from the river’s drafts. “Come on, what’s so important that you gotta call me out to the middle a’ nowhere, well, the _meeting_ spot, when winter’s coming? You should be inside, Stevie, and that’s not just me talkin’.”

“I told you, I just wanted to… say somethin’. But you gotta give me a minute or I’m not gonna have the nerve.” He took a breath, too shallow, then flexed and unflexed his hands while taking a slower one. Focused on getting the air in, warm air, _just breathe_ , like Bucky always told him.

Frown turning into a pout on his lips, Bucky ran his hands up and down Steve’s arms, a gesture which he accepted only a moment before batting away. “Steve Rogers, needing to gather nerve? Never heard it, something that outrageous. What’d ya do with my buddy, Steve?”

The smirk came next, like routine, like a script. Steve let out a breath of relief, not knowing he’d been holding in his air. “Come on, quit playing, punk.”

Chuckling, Bucky’s brunette hair was disheveled by a shake of his head, flopping ever so slightly over his brow. “You callin’ me here ‘cause Sally asked you to dance and you stepped on her toes? I’m telling ya, Steve, you have to learn through practice. If you tell every girl that you can’t dance, you’ll never learn. It’s alright to goof up.” The teasing tone lie ever-present, slicking up every word of his sentence.

Steve waited a beat, just a second too long. He looked down, wet his lips, then looked back up and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. I just can’t get it down, plus after that she didn’t want to hang with a fuddy-duddy like me.”

“Can’t see why not, sweetest guy I know.”

Steve’s face flushed, and a mirroring rush of heat caused Bucky’s head to pound. He looked down now, used to the feeling if only for a moment, used to the way that even one look from Steve, blue eyes glancing up through those long lashes, could make his world tilt.

“That doesn’t always cut it when a girl just wants to have fun.”

He couldn’t do it. Bucky couldn’t say the words that leapt to his throat, the argument that rose in defense of Steve, in defense of what creeping feelings had been tormenting him for years. Those weren’t the kinds of thoughts one leapt to defend, anyways.

So, he smiled back, that equally sheepish blush attributable to every other thing in his entire world than the dames from the dance hall he pretended to recall in memory. It had everything to do with Steve, who he’d been watching that night, and who he watched now. Always. He went along with it. 

Well, maybe he could give himself a little leeway. He’d learned how to keep himself from going crazy by this.

“Well then, you gotta learn. I’m tellin’ ya, Steve, gotta learn by experience.” Bucky stepped toward him. Steve almost knocked back into the wall, but a strong arm wrapped around his waist in time to tug him close and away from the offending brick. Bucky grinned, those eyes soft and warm, lovely and handsome as the features of his face had been changing and setting over the past few years. He knew he was still familiar, yet Steve always gazed back as if he were noticing something new every day, memorizing the lines and angles for a sketch or a photograph.

Steve’s face remained boyish, even at sixteen. But Bucky always stared at it for as long as he could manage without getting caught, without Steve teasing him with a shove or a stranger giving Bucky a glare _just_ concerning enough. 

Just as Steve might know every inch of his changing face, Bucky knew the look on Steve’s now. Brows furrowed, drawing together with an upturned twitch pinpointed immediately; shy. But his jaw didn’t set, not opposed. _Dammit_ for the thousandth time if it weren’t another expression he adored.

“Ain’t nobody watching, you can lead.”

Steve huffed in a weak protest, with no intent to back down. He squirmed a little in Bucky’s arms to reposition, to take up his hand - Steve’s own was clammy from the cold and sweat in his palm - and settled another on his taller friend’s hip. Just a little to the back, rather than traditionally lower on his side. Bucky resisted the urge to reach and adjust it; he knew why Steve kept his hand where it was.

They danced. An easy waltz, 1-2-3-4.

“Left foot forward, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, Bucky.”

“Well, I know you’ve got two, so I was just making sure you’d use the - ow!”

“ _That_ was on purpose. Shut up.”

“Yeah, I know, Steve.” Bucky laughed. Pulled him closer. As if he _wanted_ his shoes to be trod on again. “Need me to hum?”

“As long as it’s not singing.”

“You know you love my voice.”

“Uh-huh.”

He did. Steve had told him before, as well as complimented his eyes and laugh and everything that came with them - smiles and tears and shouts and giggles. Things that ordinary friends wouldn’t have the quiet hours of the morning or late hours of evening to share. But, they were far from ordinary friends, anyway. If Steve were an _ordinary_ friend, Bucky wouldn’t be there to hold him in winter when sickness pulled him under with its scraping, grating fingers. And if Bucky were an _ordinary_ friend, Steve would hardly allow him to be the one to yank him out of harm’s way, at any hour of the day no matter the amount of thugs he’d have tried to take on.

Their connection was what made them extraordinary, and yet what scared Bucky the most. Because with that connection came such a deep understanding that he felt as though he could read Steve’s every thought, predict every reaction, and yet also left him completely in the dark. 

Because all good things had to come to an end, didn’t they? Whenever they got too comfortable, like they were now, moving together - clumsily, but together all the same - something would change. As much as he tried to resist it, Bucky’s festering pessimism still found a way to brush elbows with that fact.

And even more nagging, more gnawing and condemning, Bucky had _that thought_ , _those feelings_ running through his mind. He hated that he knew exactly what the feeling was called, hated that it was so easy to peg a four-letter word onto it. So easily could it be something stowed away, tucked in the back of his mind and corner of his heart. And yet, he kept finding a way to torture himself like this. To hold Steve close and laugh breathlessly, to watch his eyes and feel no shame on the surface, but a churning guilt underneath.

He knew he would burst if he pushed them apart, with the words or without them. He didn’t want to go out on a guilty conscience, but Bucky didn’t know if being dishonest to his ever-faithful Steve, the littlest guy with the biggest heart, would be worse than a confession. A confession of something _wrong_ , something that could so easily hammer a moral wedge right between them for good.

“You doin’ okay, Bucky? You look disappointed.” Steve chuckled quietly, nervously as he stepped right on Bucky’s foot again and huffed in frustration. “Sorry. How can ya do this without even paying attention?”

“Oh? Nah, I’m alright. You’re not doing too bad, it’s easy to relax when you’re leadin’ me, Stevie.” Bucky grinned, a lopsided smile that masked all apprehension. Always worked, whether Steve could see behind it or not, he’d never been able to figure out. 

And that was okay. Because Steve smiled right back, that big grin that shone like starlight. Nodded and hummed to himself, muttering _one, two, three, four_ under his breath as they danced.

At times like this, Bucky wondered what he would do if there was even a _chance_ that Steve could know. He’d pondered on it a lot, because there were a _lot_ of moments like this when Steve shone like the morning sun and Bucky was left to soak in the rays. And every time he had come to the same conclusion.

It couldn’t work. Because at least as friends, they could be together. But the thought of some passion, some _greed_ that drove Bucky to want _more_ , getting them hurt? Putting Steve in more danger than his own body already did, having a society warring against them when Steve already warred each day to live? It wasn’t fair. Even if Steve knew, Bucky knew it wouldn’t be fair to ask that.

All these thoughts swarmed his head, clouding his vision so that Steve was the only one in it. As it normally did. It was only natural, since Steve was his world.

So, Bucky was all the more taken aback when his world suddenly pushed him away, a strange look contorting his features into a panicked grimace as his hands were snatched back from Bucky’s hand and hip - _low on his hip_ , he realised.

Bucky opened his mouth, head pounding and heart racing with worry. Had he said anything out loud? Somehow - somehow, had Steve known what he was thinking?

“Buck, I can’t do this.”

“What, dance?” Bucky tried so hard to hold himself together, but the way his hands hovered in the air, the way his voice spiked all betrayed him. 

“No, I mean, yeah but - I-I especially can’t _with you_.” Steve looked away. Clenched his fists. Grit his teeth. Teared up and flushed red. “I had something to talk about, remember?”

Bucky’s heart sank to the ground beneath them. Once again, his jaw wouldn’t respond. He just stayed silent and stared. They _had_ forgotten to bring that _something_ up.

Steve, persistent, determined as always, brutally _honest_ as always, shook his head and kept talking. _Oh_ , how that mouth of his got him into so much trouble. “I can’t dance with ya, Bucky, I can’t because I - you’re… I like you.”

_Huh._

_Oh._

Bucky had _just_ been thinking that over, been working it through in his mind. Yet everything just froze in front of him, the chilly night air turning to the harshest of winters. He barely had time to register the flush of his skin, the beat of his heart, all the thoughts in his head that screamed _yes!_ and jumped for joy. 

Instead what spilled out was the easiest thought from only moments ago. _No._ He couldn’t let Steve get hurt like this.

 _In the end, he was undeserving._ Steve was worth it. Bucky was _not_.

Bucky was undeserving.

Winter.

“Oh… Oh, Steve. You… you know you can’t.”

Frozen. Winter. Dark thoughts and slow reactions. A chill that cut to his bones, starting at his fingertips.

“I can, too!” Steve suddenly was wide-eyed, his voice childish, much more matching the lightness, the _frailty_ in his frame. His eyes were glassy. That icy blue, so pretty, just stabbing Bucky to remind him. _Winter_ . “Bucky, ya don’t get it! Since we were _kids_ , you’re my best friend! I know how I feel, and I know _you!_ So just - say something else, don’t just tell me what to do. Anything, please, even _hit_ me if you have to!”

Bucky swallowed, shaking his head violently. He could never hit or hurt Steve. Never, _ever_ . Something else would have to rob his body from his mind in order to betray them like that. Something throbbed in the back of his skull. “Come on, Stevie… I… I can’t.” _Can’t what, Bucky?_ “You know that, too. Maybe we just… Just stay like you said. Best friends. We can leave it there, like always, yeah?”

It was such a simple dismissal, performed in a matter of seconds. Steve must have been working himself up for _hours, days, months_ to say that. And here Bucky stood, pushing it away numbly, within _seconds_ , as if they meant nothing but an inconvenience. But he was frozen. It _hurt_.

He hated winter.

Steve grit his teeth and sniffed harshly, cold air rushing into his lungs. He cried. He never cried, not even when he was getting pounded in the face, knocked black and blue in the back of an alley. But now, emotion escaped _just_ enough for tears to trickle down his hollow cheeks. His jaw remained set. They were silent traitors. Here, he was sixteen and Bucky was seventeen, and Bucky watched him cry. He wanted to look away, but he just stared, and he _hurt_.

“Bucky, we can’t… I told you because I didn’t want to _lie_. We can’t just ignore it, now. Please.”

“Then we’ll talk about it another time, just - later. Not now, Stevie, I need to… think. And you gotta get inside. It’s cold.” Bucky swiped at his own eyes, held the heels of his hands there to conceal the motion. Always hiding, always concealing. _Undeserving_.

He didn’t know how they got through that night. But eventually, they did. They had.

And they never talked about it. Later never came.

Seventeen turned to eighteen, nineteen, twenty… They got older. But seventeen, Bucky remembered that. It had changed something, even if it didn’t outwardly shift. Inside, Bucky had changed. Some days it was different than others.

And then, 1941. 1942. 1943. 1944.

1945 was too late.

Bucky hated winter.

~

 _“Рассвет,”_ the man with the book spoke. _Daybreak_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment if you enjoyed it - I respond to each and every one!!
> 
> Rewatching the Captain America trilogy gave me SO many feelings, so I decided to take these little narrative nuances I found and ball them up into a multichap fic that I could just - exert whatever fleeting angst I had revolving around these boys. That being said, I know the angsty writing differs from what I usually create, so I'm sorry if you weren't expecting it from me!
> 
> To support my writing, follow me on social media! Twitter @thirthfloor, Tumblr @aegir-emblem (main) or @juggled-muse (writing)!
> 
> I also know I'm taking my own spin on the many meanings these words could have, and especially diverging from their canon debunks. But if y'all have ideas of your own, feel free to drop them into the comments below!! I'd love to look them over and maybe draw some inspiration!!


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